


No Man is His Own Creator

by azryal



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Discipline, Dom/sub, Domestic Discipline, M/M, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fight training. Unexpected anger. Surprises. Needs. Sex. </p><p>Just another day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Man is His Own Creator

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired somewhat by season 2 spoilers of Athelstan and Ragnar sparring.

For the tenth day in a row, Athelstan held a wooden ax and faced Ragnar and his wooden sword. As others watched, he was taught how to best hold and wield, how to stand and move. How to carry his own weight. He ignored the laughter of those watchers as well as he could, for he took these lessons seriously. He wanted no more to be a weakness. He wanted no more weakness of his own.

This day, though, felt different. There was a sharpness to Ragnar’s motions, a silent accusation that Athelstan could not grasp. He wondered what it was, if it was addressed to him, and felt the air leave his lungs. As the lights and dark shapes that filled his vision cleared, he saw the blue sky. Then Ragnar appeared, holding out a hand. He took it and was hauled to his feet.

“Again,” the man said.

They resumed their positions and within moments, Athelstan resumed his place in the sand. He rose again and again, with increasing difficulty. He lost count of how many times he was knocked flat and became increasingly aware of the aches in his body. Of the grit in his clothes, hair, and mouth.

Ragnar was tireless. And strangely quiet. Athelstan recognized this and kept his questions to a minimum, only asking when relevant to their sparring. He watched the man for any change in mood, for he knew when Ragnar was like this, those changes were swift, unpredictable, and inevitable.

It came, as always, when he was distracted.

Ragnar switched tactics on the next round, tipping him forward to land face first in the sand. Athelstan pushed himself up to his knees, spitting, his eyes tearing against the grains.

“Again,” Ragnar barked.

“I can’t see,” Athelstan protested.

The practice sword landed hard on the back of his neck, knocking him forward with a grunt.

“Do you think it will matter on the field of battle? While you cry like a baby, your head will fall from your shoulders.” Ragnar’s voice was hard and sharp, like the edge of a blade.

Athelstan stood, still blinking and squinting. He spit out another mouthful of sand and took his position.

“You’re afraid of me.” It was not a question.

“Shouldn’t I be? You are my enemy. You seek to destroy me.”

There was a rustle behind him and he turned, but Ragnar’s voice came from his side. He felt a jab at his ribs as the man said, “You make it too easy.”

Athelstan tilted, off-balance, and the sword point met his gut.  “I am…learning,” he ground out, fighting for breath. His eyes still streaming and blurry, he kept both hands on the ax handle, kept it raised. There was movement before him and he swung out, only to feel Ragnar’s palm on the back of his head.

He went down again.

“You are _thinking_ ,” Ragnar spat. He stood over Athelstan and held the edge of the practice sword to his throat.

“What?” Athelstan was bewildered.

“You think only of how to beat me, how to prove yourself,” Ragnar said. His eyes were pale as ice. His sneer full of disdain. “As if you could.”

Athelstan swallowed, nervous under the regard. This was the capricious side he feared most. “Then what should I be thinking of?”

Ragnar lowered the sword and squatted before him. He raised his hand to rest atop Athelstan’s head and gently petted there. Then his fist closed and he pulled, hard, forcing Athelstan to bare his throat. “If you seek only to best me, you seek your death. Stop thinking.”

 _How do you stop thinking?_ Athelstan wanted to ask. His scalp was screaming and his eyes watered even more, but he answered, “I understand.”

“I don’t think you do.”

This was said in a near whisper, the same quiet voice Athelstan remembered from that day at Lindisfarne. He felt sick but swallowed against it. “I understand,” he said, stronger this time.

Ragnar released his hair and slapped him on the cheek, hard. “Then get up.”

Athelstan rose, as did Ragnar. The man had a bland, bored expression on his face, and he gave a great sigh, as if the afternoon was being wasted.  As if he had done nothing of merit. He raised the wooden sword with one hand, and made no other move.

As they stood there, staring and silent, Athelstan felt himself grow warm. It was more than the burn on his face, more than the aching in his muscles or the throbbing bruises scattered over his body. It was a deep, dark warmth that quickly grew hot as a flame. A rush of memories came back to him; being tied and led by a rope, paraded before the entire village, forced to his knees, hearing laughter when he spoke, derision when he questioned. He remembered being played a fool at Uppsala and the guilt he harbored after. He remembered the dismay he felt seeing the lifeless bodies of his former brothers in God. He remembered when he had never lifted an ax as a weapon, when his fingers held a quill and brush and were content.

Then these memories were wiped away by a sudden rush of anger. He felt it surge, sweeping out from his heart and filling all space within him. It caught on every resentment as if they were kindling, melted every frozen bit of loss and horror he thought he had locked away. It purified him. It cleansed him.

It cleared his mind.

When Ragnar took a stronger grip on his hilt, he only watched. When the man feinted towards him, he did not rush to parry. He waited, and the fire in him began to roar.

Ragnar came at him, sword point aiming for his face. He blocked it and Ragnar retreated. His mouth curled up on one side in a knowing, jeering smile. This time, when he lunged, Athelstan not only parried, he retaliated. The handle of his ax caught Ragnar in the shoulder, sending him back a step. When the sword swung towards his face once more, he ducked. Ragnar was smiling as he brought the hilt down on Athelstan’s temple.

In his next moment of clarity, he saw Ragnar’s eyes before him. But something wasn’t right. The angle, bright red color of Ragnar’s face, the hands crushing the man’s throat. He could hear a scream of pure rage but it couldn’t be Ragnar. He was struggling to breathe past the hold at his neck. But Ragnar wasn’t fighting back, at all. He wasn’t doing anything except staring into Athelstan’s eyes. Why didn’t he _fight_?

There was a tickle on his cheek and a drop of blood fell onto Ragnar’s lips.

And then it was obvious. He felt the man beneath him. He could feel Ragnar’s fingers wrapped tight around his wrists. The oddness of the gaze, the angle that was so wrong, was because he was seated atop the other’s chest, choking him. Looking _down_ at him. The scream cut off abruptly, leaving his throat raw and mouth dry. He sucked in a deep, quick breath, sat back, and snatched his hands away. Ragnar coughed and gagged and then he, too, breathed.

Now they stared at each other, both of them shocked into silence. Athelstan heard voices, began to recognize the gathered people around him and the things they were saying.

“What happened? Did you see it?”

“He should be stopped.”

“Ragnar said not to interfere.”

“Get Floki!”

“He tried to kill the earl! Somebody do something!”

“The earl let him do that. The boy could not be so strong.”

Athelstan was shaking. He crawled off of Ragnar, who still did nothing. Slow and unsteady, he climbed to his feet. There was sand in his eyes, in his mouth, and a sour, coppery taste that made him want to retch. The circled villagers parted for him as he staggered towards the water. He did not stop when he reached it and walked into it fully clothed. He did not stop at his knees, or his waist. He kept going until the water touched his chin.

Then he stopped. Slowly, he immersed himself completely, letting the water close over his head. It felt cold, but clean. Good. He felt a little better when he came back up so he did it again. The inferno that had raged in him was going out. He could feel it retreating, inch by inch, with every moment he spent beneath surface. He came up once more for air and submerged again. This time he waited until he felt his lungs would burst before rising. 

“There he is. See?”

Turning his head, Athelstan saw Floki on the mooring. He was grinning.

Ragnar was just behind him.

Athelstan said nothing.

Ragnar leaned closer to Floki and spoke to him. It was too quiet to hear, but Floki answered, “Of course.”

Then Ragnar left, limping off of the dock without looking back.

Floki, however, sat himself on the wooden planks and watched Athelstan. Athelstan looked away.

He dunked himself several more times, to rinse all of the sand from his hair and soothe throbbing ache in his head. Also to give himself time. Time to gather his wits, consider his actions, face his future. He had attacked not only his master, but _the_   _Earl_. He had gone far beyond the scope of sparring. He would be put in chains. He would be punished. He _deserved_ to be punished. Fear swept him then, and he wished for the anger to return. For though anger had spurred him into unwise action, fear left him frozen. Fear kept him silent. It allowed for his humiliation, and this he dreaded more than ever before.   

Taking a deep breath, Athelstan closed his eyes and focused on his future. Would he be beaten? Branded? Forced to run a gauntlet of stones? Or would he face Ragnar in _real_ combat, until death? He considered each, accepted his fear and fought to push it down. Deep down where his anger had once been stowed. Let it freeze high walls there so as not to spill as he turned back towards the shore. He would face this as bravely as he could. It was his duty.

Trudging out of the water on trembling legs, he looked down at his clothes and frowned.

“Those are ruined.”

Floki was there, just a few feet away, grinning.

“I’ll make do,” Athelstan answered, dully.

“Take them off,” Floki said. When Athelstan didn’t move, he pursed his lips and cast a glance towards the hall. “Ragnar’s orders.”

Athelstan looked around, at the people back to work outside their homes. There weren’t many, but enough to make his nudity all the worse.

“Stalling won’t make it any easier. Best to do it quick.”

Floki’s words made sense. He nodded, shoved the shame he felt down with the fear, and reached for his belt. The wet leather made it difficult and huffed in frustration at the knots. Silently, Floki pulled out his skinning knife and deftly cut the strap. Athelstan watched the knife come towards his throat and his words stuck in his throat. Before he could get them out he felt the metal graze his chin, but the sharp edge only made a notch in the neck of his tunic. He gasped with Floki took the fabric with both his fists and tore, ripping the garment down the front. It fell to the ground at his feet.

He wanted to do the rest on his own but couldn’t make his hands move. His walls had not held and he cursed them, then cursed himself.

_Weak._

His laces were cut and his breeches began to slide.

_Coward._

Floki bent to take off his shoes. The breeches were last and he stood naked.

“Come on. He wants to see you,” Floki said, mildly. He seemed completely unaffected, uncaring that Athelstan was trembling, pale and frozen.

“Floki,” Athelstan called, hoarse and tremulous. “I have no other clothes.”

Floki shrugged. “You’ll find more. Later. Now, we go in.”

Athelstan felt dizzy. Sick.

“Don’t make me carry you.”

He bit his tongue and followed, covering his nethers with his hands. He knew it a short walk to the doors but it seemed to take forever. His eyes stayed glued to Floki’s back for to see the stares of the others would undo him. They were within hearing of the hall now and there were many voices raised, in both excitement and laughter. He stopped walking.

Floki turned and saw him. With long, slow strides he came back to stand over him. His voice was threatening and his face mockingly apologetic when he said, “You must go in, and you will be happier if you do it of your own will.”

_Just do it! Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think…_

The darkness of the hall was very cool against his bare skin. He walked with his gaze on the floor ahead of him, both to watch as his path was cleared and to avoid seeing faces, eyes, jeering and mocking. He stopped when he came to a pair of boots. When they didn’t step aside, he moved to his right. The boots stepped left. He went left and the boots right. He would not look up. He wouldn’t.

He didn’t have to.

“Now!” came a cry and he was taken around his chest by a pair of great arms.

Athelstan shut his eyes tight and tried not to think.

He was carried a short distance where he was dropped without warning. This jarred every bruise, every sore and strained muscle, but he only gave a low grunt. His feet were seized, held high, and shoved into…into…trousers? From one heartbeat to the next his lower half was clothed. Boots were forced onto his feet and then they were dropped. Hands took his wrists and pulled and soft cloth fell down his arms. It was yanked roughly over his head. Another set of hands took his and a heavier garment followed. Then he was brought to his feet and a belt placed on his hips.

Arne yanked the trailing end of it, hard, and grinned. “Done!”

The long arms surrounded him once more and he was carried forward, towards the dais. He was dropped without warning and almost toppled over, but he was kept standing by the person who’d carried him. He heard a voice above his head. It was Torstein. “You’ve gotten heavy,” the man quipped, squeezing his shoulders.

“As requested, Earl Ragnar. He’s presented, presentably,” Arne said, beside him.

Torstein pushed him forward.

Athelstan didn’t look up at Ragnar. He was still looking down, but at the clothes that had been thrust upon him. It was new, well-made and rich, and all black. The color of Ragnar’s house. He smoothed down the front of the tunic, adjusted the belt, and raised his eyes.

As ever, the sight of Ragnar on the high seat was thrilling. Though grand and over-sized, the man filled the space with aplomb, leaning to the left and balancing a cup of wine on the right. His emblem was stitched into the space over his heart, shining leather in contrast to the fine wool of his tunic. Black on black, the same colors Athelstan now himself wore. The Lady Aslaug sat beside him, holding their newborn babe. She smiled at Athelstan, and, though small, it was a comfort.

Ragnar raised his hand for quiet. With a smirk and with a rougher than normal voice, he said to the gathering, “All right, enough. I have something to discuss.”

Athelstan stood straight and tall, and silent. Inside he burned with guilt and quaked with fear.

“You attacked me today, Athelstan,” Ragnar said.

His tone was mild, even amused. It was confusing, Athelstan answered as boldly as he could. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

The soft question took him off guard. He had no answer.

Ragnar raised his brows, took a sip of wine, and waited.

Athelstan breathed deep and opened his mouth. He planned to apologize, to beg forgiveness for forgetting his place, but what he said was, “I was tired.”

There was some laughter, a few murmurs behind him. Ragnar leaned forward, his piercing gaze never wavering from Athelstan’s face. “Tired of what?”

The rush of memory returned. The scenes of humiliation and despair brought the anger back, but without the weight of the ax in his hands, all he had were words for his weapon.

“Of being your… _amusement,”_ he said. “Tired of playing your fool. Even in the beginning, when I was a just captive child in a land of…of _monsters_ , I have given you faithful service. I have only _ever_ served you with my whole heart and still at every turn I am ridiculed and scorned. If I am merely an absurdity, an idiot you wish to laugh at as you _pretend_ to teach me battle, then I beg to return to the kitchen fire. At least, there, I will know what to expect. I will no longer be tempted to…”

He stopped, for he could feel the heat in his face, his breathing grown fast and shallow.

“Tempted to what?” Ragnar prodded. His face was unusually solemn.

All hope of reprieve left Athelstan. The control he had over his speech evaporated and he shouted, “To hope to be a man! To be a  _free_  man!  _Your_  man!"”

There was silence all around him.

“I _should_ be angry with you, Ragnar. I should want to kill you for the things you’ve done to me, but I do not. I’m angry that you won’t let me be more. I’m tired of being lied to and I cannot promise never to attack again so long as I am still treated this way.” He paused to rest, for he truly was tired now and longed for the evening to end. He squared his shoulders and looked away from Ragnar’s face. “So, get on with it, would you?”

Ragnar stood, stepped down from the dais, and stopped before him. Quietly, so only Athelstan could hear, he asked, “Get on with what?”

“My punishment,” Athelstan answered, just as softly.

“Do you need punishment?”

“The law says-“

Ragnar went around him and spoke loud, to the hall. “The law says that a thrall who attacks a free man must be punished.”

Athelstan closed his eyes and waited his sentence.

“But a free man insulted has the right to challenge. In victory, the truth will be known,” Ragnar continued. He circled Athelstan and faced him. “A man fights for his honor.”

He put one hand on Athelstan’s shoulder.

“You have no arm ring, but you, Athelstan, are a man,” Ragnar said. “A _free_ man.”

Athelstan stared, open-mouthed and speechless.

“The ring will come, in time. Until then, you will stay here, and serve this house, faithfully and with honor. Agreed?”

Athelstan closed his mouth, swallowed, and said, “Agreed.”

“Good.” Ragnar gave him a broad, happy grin and clapped his shoulder, hard. Then he shouted, “I’m hungry! Where’s the food?”

The meal was a blur for Athelstan. Sat directly across from Ragnar and Aslaug, he found he could not concentrate on what was said around him.  He ate and drank little, for nothing had taste. He managed to respond when spoken to and smile at the proper times, but only just. His head hurt and his thoughts were scattered. He could not name what he felt nor could he put it to rest. He only knew it was…wrong, somehow. He should have been happy, proud that he had achieved new status in the eyes of all present. That he wasn’t bothered him, greatly.

Beside him was Floki, ever watchful despite how many times his cup was filled. At no point had he said anything to Athelstan since they had begun to eat, but now the man turned to him with a question.

“What do you feel, now that you are free?”

It was unexpected, and yet not. From Floki any and all manner of things were always expected. Still, it took Athelstan a moment to answer him. “My clothes are nicer. I sit at the Earl's table. But I feel the same.”

Floki gazed at him, thoughtfully, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “It was your greatest wish, was it not?”

Athelstan looked away. “I thought...yes, of course.”

“You thought what? Tell me, I _am_ curious.” His eyes were not mocking, nor was the tone in which he spoke.

“I thought I would _feel_ free. That knowing I was free would lift the weight I still feel around my neck.”

Floki took a drink and squinted at his throat. “I see nothing, no mark or scar showing that you were ever bound there.”

“You know I was,” Athelstan said, frowning.

“And I know you haven’t been in a long time.”

His frown hardening into a scowl, Athelstan told him, “You asked me how I felt, not to make sense of it.”

Laughing, Floki gave him a chuck on the shoulder. “You grow smart with freedom. I like it.”

Athelstan shook his head. “I grow stupid, Floki. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Would you like my opinion?”

Such a strange thing, to be _asked_ what he wanted. Athelstan considered, and answered, “Yes.”

“You feel no joy because you wish to be owned,” Floki said, without preamble. “It gives you purpose and comfort, knowing you belong to another.”

Athelstan could only stare.

“You are still owned, for your heart has not changed. You still belong to Ragnar, and you always will.”

The truth of it hurt and soothed at the same time. “Ragnar…”

Waving his hand, Floki interrupted. “Ragnar made you what you are. He chose the weave. You were a bare loom when you came here. Now you have a pattern and it must be continued, for to change in the middle only ruins the fabric.

“Ragnar made me,” Athelstan said, softly, looking into the man’s sober and serious eyes.

Floki gripped his shoulder. “No man creates himself. We are all begun as empty threads, only their length is chosen by the Gods. In the end, we become what our makers design, because pleasing them is all our hearts long for.”

“I will…think on your words,” Athelstan replied, feeling dazed and no less troubled. “Thank you, Floki.”

Nodding, Floki took his cup and stood. “Let me find the girl with the pitcher. You need a drink.”

He left Athelstan staring at his empty chair.

There was a gentle touch to Athelstan’s wrist. Aslaug had leaned forward, reaching across the table towards him. She whispered, conspiratorially, “You don’t look as though you are enjoying yourself.”

He took in her amusement, noted the affection in her soft grey eyes, and managed a reply. “Apologies, my Lady. Your husband’s sword found my head today. I have since felt out of sorts.”

“Sup is over. Why not find your bed and rest?” she suggested. Her hand lay atop his and she smiled at him.

“I would stay until it is time to clear away the remains,” he said, unaccountably moved by her concern. He swallowed hard, resisting the urge to rest his forehead upon the back of her hand. “I am still in your service and would not shirk my duties.”

“You may no longer be a thrall, but I am still lady of this house,” Aslaug said, drawing back to resume her regal bearing. “And I say to bed with you. If you wish, you may rise all the earlier tomorrow.”

She winked at him and he felt his first real smile of the evening. “I would like that, if I am to be honest. It's stuffy in here. The hall is too warm, and feels like an old chest left too long in storage.”

Her merry laughter drew Ragnar’s attention from talk of horses and cattle. His eyes fell on Aslaug first, then followed the line of her gaze to Athelstan.

“You finally find your humors with my wife? I begin to doubt my wisdom in freeing you,” he teased, staring hard into Athelstan’s eyes.

Athelstan flushed, but it was the force of Ragnar’s gaze and not his words that brought the stain to his cheeks. He could neither avert his own eyes nor find his voice to answer.

“Leave him alone, Ragnar,” Aslaug scolded, hitting the man on the arm. “You scrambled his brains today. I daresay, that’s why he brought you low.”

Ragnar glanced at her, gave her a quick smile, looked back at Athelstan. “Is this true?”

Athelstan found his heart in his throat and fought to speak around it. “I don’t remember all of it, my lord, only the pain in my head and then my hands…”

“Around my neck,” Ragnar finished for him. He appeared to think, gave a great show of it by squinting and pursing his lips. “It will do for an excuse, _this time_. You’re no fighter yet. I will have many chances for revenge.”

Though said in jest, but the word _revenge_ sent a shiver through Athelstan. He nodded.

“I told him to go to bed and still he sits,” Aslaug said, laughing again. “You chose well, husband, for even in his distress he will not leave us.”

The corners of Ragnar’s mouth curled, just a bit. “I did choose well.”

Athelstan had to gasp to catch his breath.  Floki chose that moment to return, noisily setting a pitcher and cup on the table, distracting them all. As he took his seat once more, Athelstan sprung from his own chair and gave a stiff, formal bow. “My lord, my lady, I bid you goodnight,” he said, and hurriedly left their company.

“But I just got the drink!” he heard Floki say before he got out of earshot. “Ah, well, more for me!”

Athelstan fell onto his blankets fully clothed. He buried his face, clutching at the tunic over his swiftly beating heart. What was it, this feeling that had hold of him? It wasn’t the dread that filled him as he’d entered the hall. It wasn’t anger, though he sincerely wished for that to return and cleanse him again. It was a restlessness that gave him no peace. He sought for an answer but none would come.

The sounds from the great room faded as the night wore on and finally disappeared all together, but the silence offered nothing. He lay tense and awake, unable to even close his eyes for more than a blink. His mind ran in circles, repeating the evening over and over until he was nearly weeping. What was the cause of his racing, aching heart?

_It gives you purpose and comfort, knowing you belong to another._

Athelstan pressed his knuckles into his eyes. It was hard to hear, but he knew it was true. He would always want it, no matter what his life became.

_You still belong to Ragnar, and you always will._

Ragnar had released him, smiling as though he was happy to let him go.

_You will stay here, and serve this house, faithfully and with honor_

Yet he still lived in the hall. He still served the house of Ragnar.

“Ragnar made me,” he whispered into the night. “He made me a man. A free man.”

 _After_ Athelstan had tried to kill him. Ragnar freed him only after being defeated before his own people.  Surely that did not call for such reward.

_I will have many chances for revenge._

Why did that word shake him to his core? He had escaped punishment by Ragnar's own actions.

_Do you need punishment?_

He sat straight up, the answer revealing at once.

Shoving his blankets away, Athelstan stood. He left his corner, quickly but quietly making his way back to the great room. The fire burned low, casting shadows and making it hard to see, but he could hear the snores of those asleep on the benches. Everyone was already abed.

So he thought.

“What are you doing?”

The low voice came from the dais. Athelstan didn’t have to see to know who it was.

“I need to speak with you,” he whispered, turning where he stood.

There was a light step and the dais creaked as Ragnar rose from the high seat. “Is it so urgent?”

Athelstan could see his outline. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“Is something wrong?” Ragnar emerged from the shadows into the red shimmer of the fire.

“No, nothing,” Athelstan answered, giving a quick shake of his head.

Ragnar came closer, and closer still, until he was near enough to feel as he breathed. “Then what is so important?”

Athelstan floundered. What did he mean to say?

Ragnar waited, watching his face.

_Don’t think._

“Why did you free me?”

At first, Ragnar looked surprised. Then he laughed, covering his mouth to quiet his mirth.

_Don’t think._

“Was it because of the punishment?”

That stopped his laughter. He bent so close their noses touched. “And if it was?”

Athelstan’s lips parted but nothing came out.

“What do you want, Athelstan?” Ragnar asked.

“I was a slave when I attacked you.”

Ragnar pulled back an inch and took a deep breath. His eyes lowered, sweeping down Athelstan’s form and back up. His gaze once more on Athelstan’s face, he said, “You were.”

“Then, my being free changes nothing.”

“You want to be beaten to death?”

“No, of course not.”

This time, Ragnar came close breathe into his ear. “Do you want me to punish you?”

“Not…particularly.”

Lips barely brushing, Ragnar changed his question. “Do you _need_ me to punish you, Athelstan?’

Turning his head, just enough, Athelstan’s lips moved against the man’s cheek.

“Yes.”

Neither one of them moved for a moment. Neither of them spoke. Then Ragnar bent a bit more and his breath grazed Athelstan’s neck. He shuddered, his own breath hitching, and one of his hands found Ragnar’s shoulder.

Drawing away, Ragnar gave his face another long look. His expression carried too much; concern and consternation, determination, and no small amount of blatant hunger. With a slow nod, the man stepped back and told him, “Follow me.”

There was a storeroom behind the hall, a small outcrop of the main structure that had no windows and one, heavy door. It held their grains in jars, dried meats and vegetables hung along the walls, and varying chests of other goods stacked beneath them. There was no gold or silver here and so no guard was needed. The strong bar holding the door closed was only on the outside, to keep out wandering animals, but Ragnar took a small block of wood and shoved it into the space between hinge and wall. The door would not open from without, not until the block was removed It was quiet. It was secure.

Athelstan stood at the center, hands clenched into fists. Ragnar had brought a lamp which now rested on one of the chests, lighting the room enough to watch as the other turned to scan the room. He seemed to make a decision and moved toward the center, eyes boring into Athelstan as he approached…

…and brushed by him without a word.

His agitation reaching new heights, Athelstan waited as Ragnar lifted and shoved, moving a long sturdy oak trunk to rest beside another and setting one chest atop the second to create a sort of chair. Ragnar stood on the lid of the bottom one, bouncing a little on his toes as if testing its strength. He kicked the sides, as well, and gave a grunt of approval as he sat down on it. Leaning back and stretching his long legs out before him, Ragnar looked just formidable as he did on the high seat.

“Why do you need this, Athelstan?” he asked, sounding very much the earl.

_Stop thinking._

“I struck you. I attacked you outside the boundaries set for instruction, with intent to do you harm,” Athelstan answered, soft but sure.

“That is what you did, yes, but I want to know _why_ you need to be punished,” Ragnar said, in the cool, calm manner of his title.  

Athelstan let the words come. “Because you made me.”

Ragnar looked very pleased with himself, but spoke without too much satisfaction. “I made you? Tell me what that means.”

“It means that as you molded me to your liking you shaped me with your desires. I know them all, and what your heart desires,” Athelstan paused to moisten his lips, catch his breath, “my heart desires, also.”

“And you think I desire to punish you?” Now there was an edge to Ragnar’s voice, a dark, dangerous undercurrent beneath the smug condescension.

“I know you do. If for no other reason than the revenge you spoke of, earlier.” Athelstan had never felt surer of anything in his life. “I desire it because in the moments that I lost to mindless rage, I forgot the most important thing.”

Ragnar tilted his head. Waited.

“I forgot you are my master.”

“You are free now, Athelstan.”

“You _made_ me, my lord. My status as a free man doesn’t change that I am yours.”

A space of silence, during with Athelstan could see Ragnar’s jaw clench. When the man spoke next, the dark undercurrent was verging on maelstrom. “You are my what?”

“Your slave.” Just saying it gave him some relief.

Ragnar inhaled, deeply, through his nose. His composure slipped and his body tightened, visibly. “Say it again. Say it, correctly.”

Athelstan dropped to his knees. “I am your slave, Ragnar.”

Even with the anticipation of what was to come building within him, Athelstan felt lighter. So light that he swayed and had to fight to stay upright. Ragnar must have seen for he commanded, softly, “Come to me.”

Athelstan made to rise, but Ragnar stopped him.

“Crawl.”

He put his hands to the dirt floor, lowered his head, and crawled to his master. When he saw the toe of Ragnar’s boots, he stopped.

“Closer,” Ragnar said.

His head nudged Ragnar’s knee. He pressed his cheek into the cowhide trousers. A hand smoothed over his hair and he sighed, turning to place a kiss on its palm.

The moment passed quickly, but it was enough. When Ragnar spoke next, he was ready.

“Stand up. Take off your clothes.”

Carefully, Athelstan folded and set aside the new tunic, smock, and trousers. The boots he put beside them.

Ragnar held out his hand for the belt, and, kneeling once more, Athelstan placed it in his grasp.

“Why are you being punished?” Ragnar asked.

“I forgot you are my master,” Athelstan answered, eyes on Ragnar’s face.

“Do you beg forgiveness?”

Athelstan bent, kissed Ragnar’s boot and said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Forgive me, please. Please, I beg you…forgive me.”

The toe of the boot lifted and guided him back up to his knees. “Your punishment is to be beaten until I am satisfied. Stand now and lay across my legs.”

Once he was upright, Athelstan couldn’t quite understand what he meant. “My lord, I don’t…”

“On your belly,” Ragnar said, pulling him over his lap. “Like this.”

He lay completely naked while Ragnar was still in his clothes. Athelstan couldn’t remember a time when his master had remained fully dressed as he gave instruction. He was far too fond of skin on skin, seemed to think it necessary and vital to his pleasure. It was strange and new, and oddly intimate. His ass was squarely set in Ragnar’s lap. His cock and sac slipped into the space between Ragnar’s thighs. It would take but one squeeze to cause him real pain. Athelstan shivered.

“Are you frightened?” Ragnar asked him, trailing the belt up his spine. “Tell me why.”

“You have never beaten me, my lord,” Athelstan whispered. “But I still know your strength and the force of your wrath.”

“Know this then, I will not be gentle. I will not stay my blows.”

The trembling began anew and remained. “Yes, my lord. Thank you.”

“We begin.”

Athelstan took a deep breath and braced himself, and was startled when he felt something fall onto his crossed arms. He had enough time to register it was the belt before the first blow fell.

Ragnar’s broad, long-fingered hand delivered a bruising slap. Athelstan gasped, loud, and jerked before he could stay his reaction. The second came fast, the third and fourth just as swiftly and all on the same square of flesh. By the fifth he was biting his lip, fighting to keep all sound within. There was a measure of relief when Ragnar switched to the other side but it was short lived. The pain was worse when Ragnar returned to his original target, for the sudden, sharp burn of impact was intensified with the throbbing ache beneath it.

He received five blows at a time, alternating between his buttocks, and lost count of turns after the third. By then, he was lost to it, and no longer cared that he was crying out and tearful. He kept his face hidden in his folded arms even when they no longer fell, weeping without shame. It was the scrape of whiskers, followed by warm, moist air that made him aware something had changed.

There was a kiss, gently given to the worst of his pain, and he grew quiet. Then the sweep of a tongue and cool, soothing breeze, blown from Ragnar’s lips to ease what he had delivered. Ragnar had never…not so _gently_ , at least…and it was nearly a punishment in its own right. He bit his lip again, tongue worrying the cuts already there, and did not ask why. Instead, he groaned, caught keenly between pleasure and pain, question and submission. When the bliss from his thrashing came his body was greedy for it, sparking every nerve and not just the ones suffering from Ragnar’s blows. His cock hardened and the wool against it chafed, but this, too, was pleasure. His hips rocked, first back to meet the next kiss then forward to thrust into the hot press of Ragnar’s thighs.

He felt it when Ragnar spoke, lips still pressed to his burning flesh. “Athelstan, can you hear me?”

It took a moment for him to answer, and managed on a breath. “Yes.”

The kiss withdrew and he whimpered.

“I want you to sit up now, astride me.”

His arms and legs were wobbly, still trapped in the bliss. Slowly, he pushed himself up and, with Ragnar’s strong, warm hands to help, was able to throw one leg over without toppling. Ragnar shifted them both to his liking and he was settled in Ragnar’s lap. On Ragnar’s cock, thick and hard in his trousers. He knew his duty and reached for the man’s laces, but his hands were taken and placed on Ragnar’s chest.

“Kiss me,” Ragnar said, his fingers lacing into Athelstan’s hair.

Athelstan obeyed. He bent with his lips parted and his tongue eager to drink from his master’s mouth. It went on and on, stripping away any words he had thought to use. His only thought was how good it was to have this taste once more, to feel Ragnar’s moans as they fed into him and know he was the source of this pleasure. When his curls were tugged he tore away with a gasp.

“Please, my lord…let me…”

Ragnar shushed him, keeping him close so that their foreheads were pressed together. “Just feel, slave. Just let me touch you,” the man growled, and wrapped his fingers around Athelstan’s cock.

Athelstan closed his eyes and did as he was told. Already wing-ed, his senses took flight at the tug and twist of Ragnar’s hand, the sting of teeth at his throat. He found the fine line between ecstasy and release and rode upon it for an eternity. He was dripping sweat, feverish from the drawn-out pleasure but he did not, could not, let go.

“Open your eyes,” Ragnar whispered.

Athelstan obeyed and met Ragnar’s ethereal gaze, so close he could see himself in the dark centers. The lips of his reflection moved but he was mindless, living so purely in that instant that he had no thought. He could not hear over his heartbeat and his breathing, and so did not know if words were truly spoken. He saw Ragnar smile and wanted to kiss him again. Ragnar’s lips moved under his own.

“Let go, Athelstan,” his master said. “Come for me.”

He froze, every muscle in him straining and tight. His mouth was open and he thought he might scream or shout, but the air was locked in his lungs. The peak was so hard, so consuming, that when the descent finally began all that left him was a choked sob. He fell forward, almost insensible, and was only barely saved from hitting his face on the chest at Ragnar’s back by the grip in his hair.

Ragnar let him be still, rubbing circles into the small of back and not once trailing farther down. Athelstan took this comfort, greedily, wantonly, only moving enough to nuzzle close to his master’s throat. His eyes opened a slit as the bliss faded and the flicker of awareness caught on the bruising. It had been hidden by Ragnar’s tunic but he had pulled it askew. While they weren’t the dark black of true injury, the red and purple smudges were very plain up close.

He pressed a kiss there, and said, “I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s past now,” Ragnar answered.

Athelstan sat up, wincing as his throbbing bottom bore his weight. He heard a chuckle but was distracted by the hardness he felt beneath him. “Ragnar!”

Ragnar made a face and waved a hand. “Leave it.”

“But…”

“No. It’s my own punishment.”

“Yours?” Athelstan asked.

“For neglecting you,” Ragnar told him.

Athelstan’s jaw dropped. He shook his head.

“We both forgot I was your master, Athelstan.” Ragnar held his face. “I am no master at all if I can’t see when I am needed. What happened today was a reminder and I am grateful for it.”

“You’re not just  _my_  master. You are a father and a husband. You lead these people,” Athelstan said in understanding as his fingers circled Ragnar’s wrists.

The man's thumbs stroked Athelstan’s cheeks. “And you are not  _just_  my slave.”

The look on his face made his meaning clear. Athelstan gave him a small smile and let his eyes show his truest, deepest feelings.

Ragnar pulled him down again and one arm took his waist to lift while the other swept his legs to one side. He was cradled against Ragnar’s chest, against the damp marks left from his release. “I’ve stained your tunic.”

“It will wash,” the man said with a shrug. “It will be your duty today to get it clean.”

Athelstan tilted his head to look him. “I’m a free man, now. I don’t have to do your laundry.”

“I am still your master,” Ragnar told him, sternly, but his humor was evident in his grin.

“You will always be my master,” Athelstan whispered, making it a promise.

Ragnar kissed his lips. Then he kissed the cut at his temple where the sword had struck him. “No matter what the others see, you are my greatest treasure.”

Athelstan let his master guide his head to rest against his shoulder. He sighed, happy to be warm and cherished, content to be held in the arms of his Creator.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I had really wanted this to be fluffy smut. My brain had other ideas.
> 
> Thanks to Chainfour for beta-ing this for me!!


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